


The Matter of Mating

by jasminepeony14



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Courting Rituals, F/M, Implied Wrong Boy Who Lived, James Potter Lives, Lily Evans Potter Lives, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29361306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasminepeony14/pseuds/jasminepeony14
Summary: When she catches sight of Draco none too subtly gazing at Harry Potter across Flourish and Botts, Narcissa Malfoy knows the matter of mating can no longer be ignored.orIn an Regency-esque Wizarding World society, the young elite navigate wealth, prejudice, pride, and love.
Relationships: Cedric Diggory/Original Female Character(s), Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Neville Longbottom/Original Female Character(s), Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Viktor Krum/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 134





	1. What Make a Good Alpha

When she catches sight of Draco none too subtly gazing at Harry Potter across Flourish and Botts, Narcissa Malfoy knows the matter of mating can no longer be ignored. She has always been aware from the very moment Draco was born that this day would come—that, eventually, there would be a summer of suitors intent on stealing her omega son away—but sixteen years of awareness still feels like ruefully inadequate preparation. She must take few deep breaths to calm herself, because whatever the hurricane that might whirling inside, she is not about to forget herself and give into a useless fit of emotion. There’s now too much to do.

First and foremost, attending to her husband, who follows her eyes and sees what she sees.

“A Potter?” Lucius hisses later that night as he paces the floor of their bedroom. “James Potter’s spawn? Absolutely not!”

“Lucius, dear,” Narcissa murmurs, running a brush through her thick blonde waves, “do be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” he barks incredulously.

“There are worse choices than Hadrian Potter,” she replies matter-of-factly. “And when you consider it, one might even say it’s very smart match.”

“How so?” Lucius demands. “You know very well what…poor stock Lily Potter comes from. The ‘very smart match,’ as you call it, would wipe out generations of purity in an instant!”

“And what good is generations of purity now that the power of the Malfoy name wanes every passing day!” Narcissa snaps. She sets down her brush with false delicateness before raising her eyes to meet Lucius’ in the vanity mirror.

“Don’t be delusional, dear,” she says. “Our influence is not as it was, and we cannot restore it by going about things the usual way. Consider it. Truly consider it.”

It takes him a few days, just as Narcissa anticipates, but Lucius does consider it. He turns the matter over in his mind, examines all its angles, and comes to the inevitable conclusion. Maternal origins notwithstanding, Harry Potter still hails from an ancient, ever increasingly powerful wizarding house. Son of famously respected aurors and twin to the beloved Boy-Who-Lived, Harry has more than enough political capital to restore the name of Malfoy while, simultaneously, has maintained a low enough profile that wouldn’t invite the same frenzied scrutiny that so often follows the rest of his family. Once more, he is the second son, unable to inherit his father’s title, and thus perfectly suited to marry into a family with no alpha heir of its own. His children would firmly belong to the Malfoy line.

These are the reasons that soften Lucius’ reluctance, but they are not the same as the ones that convince Narcissa. She is more taken in by Harry Potter’s disposition—guileless in every gesture, generously loyal, and endowed with genuine nobility. He’s reserved with his power and displays a humbleness so night and day from his brother, Leo, who grins like someone who knows all too well he has the world at his feet. Simply put, Harry Potter is a good man, and good men are good material for doting alphas. Her son could do far worse.

Yet, Narcissa and Lucius’ eventual agreement on the suitability of Harry Potter as a suitor does not smooth the course for Draco’s desire, as Narcissa soon learns on an outing to Carrington’s Tea Shop with Calypso Zabini and Eunice Parkinson.

“The nerve of that lowborn matchmaker!” Eunice steams over lukewarm tea. “To say Pansy should ‘widen her net’! My daughter is the pinnacle of breeding and deserves nothing less than her own like! Why in Merlin’s name would her father and I even think about lowering our standards?”

“Darling, don’t take it too much to heart,’ Calypso drawls reaching for the jar of sugar lumps. “My matchmaker, the very reputable Madame Dubois, says many of her colleagues are worried about the omega-alpha ratio this season—three to one, she tells me. Advantageous for alphas, but, for omegas, competition will be brutal.” 

As she adds two sugar cubes to her tea, Calypso, the only mother of an alpha amongst the three of them, grins perfectly with faux pleasantness. Eunice sets her cup down its saucer with far less finesse. 

“Are you implying that my Pansy wouldn’t rise to the top?” Calypso sips gingerly and then neatly licks her lips

“I am merely saying that, this season, omegas—in general—cannot afford to be….presumptuous. Especially not if gems like her are in the pool.” She inclines her head to the right, artfully directing Narcissa and Eunice’s attention to the teashop’s wide front window. There, seated at one of the smaller café tables, is a girl of astounding loveliness. Framing in her exquisite seraph face, her long honey gold curls cradle the glimmers of sunlight streaming in, as her lavender blue doe eyes attentively soak in a small novel balanced between long, supple fingers.

“The daughter of your cousin, Narcissa,” Calypso says appreciatively. “Gemma Lupin-Black.”

“Lupin-Black?” Eunice scoffs. “As in blood traitor Sirius Black and his abomination of an omega? A mutt like that hardly poses a threat to the Weasley brood, let alone someone of Pansy’s caliber.”

“Eunice, darling,” Calypso sighs, patronizing patience dripping from every word, “take it for someone who knows—when you look like that, you have the key to every door in the world.” She takes another sip, allowing Narcissa and Eunice a moment to recall that Calypso’s infamous beauty had snagged her no less than seven alphas, who all lost their lives and fortunes in short order.

“But no worries,” Calypso continues. “Madame DuBois says she’ll never have a proper debut. She’s all but wed in name to the second Potter boy. Such a shame, really. I would’ve considered her for Blaise. Beautiful…and the sole heiress to the Black estate.”

Eunice poorly conceals her relief at this admission, while Narcissa betrays not an ounce of her alarm as she studies Gemma once more. She’s undeniably gorgeous, breathtaking in way that knows no end in novelty, and one look is all that’s needed to surmise she is of the endearingly sweet-natured sort. And on paper, her union to Harry Potter makes more than perfect sense. The long friendship of their parents was legendary even during her time at Hogwarts, a friendship, Narcissa learns after a number of well-placed inquiries, Harry and Gemma’s relationship seems modeled after. Rarely, apparently, are they seen apart, and when they are together, they stand each other’s space in manner that strongly suggests friendship is not the only thing between them.

And personal preferences aside, the political ramifications of a Potter-Black mating would be transformative, as Lucius cannot resist pointing out.

“As much as I loathe to say it,” he groans, “I must applaud Potter’s foresight. The Potter name, the Black blood—his grandchildren will practically be royalty.”

“You speak as if the matter’s done,” Narcissa snips.

“Isn’t it? From what I’m told, all there’s left to do is for Black to walk his daughter down the aisle. It is what is, Narcissa. We’ll find Draco someone else. He must know already that it’s a lost cause.”

“Well until wedding bands are exchanged, nothing is settled, and nothing is lost.”

Yes, for Narcissa, the game is still well and alive. The real question, however, is how to get onto the playing field. The Potters and the Malfoys don’t remotely run in the same circles, leaving opportunities to position Draco in Harry Potter’s vicinity nonexistent. With no other options, Narcissa resorts to nurturing an acquittance with Diana McLaggen, a cheery little upstart eyeing the higher rungs of society. Narcissa finds her nonstop jabbering earsplitting, but she endures, because as the wife of Steven McLaggen, scion of a long line of Ministry men and fixer of choice, Diana is slated to hold the season’s first major function. The Potters, undoubtedly, are on the guest list, and Narcissa is determined to join them. 

Weeks of biting the inside of her cheek until it bleeds pays off. The invitation arrives in an ostentatious envelope of velvet. Narcissa orders Draco new dress robes just for the occasion. They’re made of the finest silver silk, and they bring out the prettily pellicular hue of Draco’s eyes.

“Mother…” Draco starts as she smooths out the wrinkles over his shoulders. “Mother, I—”

“Hush now,” she tells him. “We don’t want to be late, do we?”

They are late, fashionably so, and the party is in full swing as they wade their way through the McLaggen gardens. The Potters are already there and are the center of a rather nauseating display of fawning, except for Harry, who stands some distance away chatting with a girl who Narcissa can only presume is one of the many Weasley progeny. Gemma Lupin-Black is with them as well—her hand resting in the crook of Harry’s elbow.

Draco turns to leave, his eyes sheening over with a watery veil. Narcissa makes to follow him.

“Draco?” Harry’s smile flags as Draco furiously attempts to wipe away the evidence of his despair.

“P-potter,” Draco greets stiffly. Harry’s expression softens.

“You look beautiful, Draco.” Harry gently grasps Draco’s hand and bends at the waist to airily kiss his knuckles. 

The next day, a bountiful bouquet of dahlias arrive via a snowy white owl. From amongst the blooms, Narcissa plucks Harry Potter’s calling card.

She doesn’t even attempt to suppress her burgeoning smile.

Draco suspects his parents have ulterior motives behind their approval of Harry, but he cannot bring himself to care. He only wants to savor the weight of Harry’s arm around his waist. To indulge in the strumming of Harry’s fingers through his platinum strands. To will his body to record every touch in the memory of its flesh.

Though he will never admit, he is frightened—terrified—that Harry will change his mind. So he doesn’t want to miss a single gentle glance or light kiss. He doesn’t want to ever forget in case this ends. In case Harry ends this.

But Harry doesn’t end this. Instead, he drops to one knee.

“Draco, will you—” Draco throws himself into Harry’s arms, joyful sobs racking his entire being.


	2. Catch of the Season

Madame DuBois prides herself on many things, her intuition most of all. Intuition is the key to the matchmaking game, and she is the best there’s ever been. So how on earth did she get it so wrong?

“Harry Potter has chosen Draco Malfoy?” she cries. Nia Kennington, a young matchmaker too green to recognize Dubois’ surprise as grievous, nods enthusiastically. 

“Their parents announced it this morning,” Nia says. “Mind-blowing, right? Everyone was so sure he was courting the Black heiress—oh, this changes everything, doesn’t it, Madame DuBois? I thought my omega clients stood half of a chance with the Black heiress already mated, but now…what alpha is going to settle when there’s a prize like her up for grabs?”

Mentally, DuBois amends Nia’s lament. _What_ worthwhile _alpha_. Because DuBois knows exactly which alphas will settle for less: A) The magically and intellectually inept, lacking wit and skill, barely half a step above squibs, so the likes of the Goyle and Crabbe scions are most certainly out, even if their clans had the notion to consider Gemma Lupin-Black, which undoubtedly they do not, seeing as they are also B) hardline pureblood bigots. 

With a “blood traitor” for a sire and a werewolf for a bearer, the little Black heiress lacks the pedigree the brides of bluebloods are required to possess. For the so-called “Sacred Twenty-Eight,” no amount of beauty or wealth could make up for tainted blood, however small the dilution. Exceptions, though, could be made for power. The Malfoys, marrying their son off to a halfblood Potter, are case in point. Really, DuBois must applaud them for the finesse of that political maneuver. Or she would, if the move had not resulted in the bludger of Gemma Lupin-Black being hurled onto the quidditch field.

Nia is right to be concerned. The young heiress is an insurmountable obstacle to any other omega hoping to make a reasonably respectable match. Any and every available alpha of decent origin and without prior attachment must pause to consider if they will try their hand at seizing such a flawless jewel, and, the smart decision is, of course, _yes_. All other prospective mates will be forced to wait until that jewel makes her choice. So the solution is simple—

The young Lady Lupin-Black must make her selection as soon as DuBois can make her.

That is why the matchmaker has called in favors to secure admission to Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy’s engagement party, a lascivious affair being held on the vast, rolling emerald Malfoy estate. She does not typically attend celebrations of matches she herself did not arrange—it’s considered bad form to infringe upon the pinnacle of another matchmaker’s success—but seeing as none of her colleagues have arranged this union, she will insult no one with her presence.

Oh, how she wishes, though, that she could claim credit for this match. What lovely portrait they make side by side, Harry sun-kissed and green-eyed, Draco silvery and ivory-skinned. And the adoration is so perfectly evident in their tasteful yet tender touches, a brush of the fingers, a hand on the small of a back—the signals of love that only true matches ever really achieve.

But DuBois is here to admire a beauty of another kind, and she does not have to wait long. Gemma arrives soon enough in the company her sire and bearer, and all breath in the room cannot help but hitch. Dressed in a gown of lilac purple, the girl really is just that beautiful, the kind of perfection produced only once in every two or three generations.

If there ever were a youth deserving of being deemed the catch of the season, here she is, with graciousness to match, apparently, given the way Gemma fawns over the newly betrothed, gifting them a large box that Dubois will later learn contains very handsome and very expensive sets of matching flying gear. Clearly, no love has been lost over any previous understanding that may or may not have existed between her and Harry, which should make DuBois’ mission easier.

Yet, Gemma’s lovely lavender eyes regard her doubtfully when she approaches the girl at the refreshment table.

“I am sorry,” the young lady murmurs, her voice as soft as spring leaves rustling in a breeze, “but I do not believe we have met—” A flick of the madame’s wand, and a card appears, unfolding into a crisp, pink square. Lavender glides left to right.

“Madame Clarice DuBois,” Gemma reads quizzically. “Matchmaker…? Forgive me, Madame, but what would a matchmaker want with me?”

“Surely, my dear,” DuBois drawls. “You need someone to manage your prospects now that it is clear to everyone that you are—” She gestures vaguely toward Draco and Harry, who are sneaking a kiss while their parents’ gazes are elsewhere engaged. “—free to court.”

“Oh no,” Gemma gently rejects with a shake of her golden head, “I have no need of-of—you’re mistaken, Madame DuBois. I have no prospects to manage.” An incredulous titter sprits from Dubois’ lips.

“You did not strike me as the coy type—”

“Gemma.” 

Tall, broad, and chestnut-haired, Cedric Diggory steps to the young witch’s side. _Another fine fish who has slipped my net_ , DuBois silently laments taking the whole of him in. His father, though unbecomingly gregarious, is a well-respected Ministry man who proudly boasts of his son’s achievements at every available occasion, so the whole of wizarding Britain is well aware of them: Head Boy at Hogwarts, skilled seeker of the Hufflepuff quidditch team, Triwizard champion, and N.E.W.T.S. scores to secure him any position he wishes. What he lacks in bloodline he more than makes up for in potential. But he is undoubtedly attached to some witch of a family name too common for DuBois to care to remember, so him joining the conversation is an unwelcome intrusion.

“Cedric,” Gemma sighs, relief laced prettily through her voice. Cedric smiles at her generously.

“Your fathers are looking for you,” he tells her. She nods and departs in a flutter of lilac, DuBois’ card left hanging in the air untouched. Once she is out of earshot, Cedric casts a cold eye over DuBois as he plucks her card with two long fingers.

“Please,” he says, holding the card back out to her, “leave Gemma alone.”

“I am told you are far from stupid, young Mr. Diggory,” Dubois clucks. No point in pretense, not when the boy has already declared his enmity. “If that is true, then you know she’ll have courting offers pouring in soon, a tidal wave really. She’ll need someone to guide her.”

“She has family and friends for that,” Cedric argues. 

“You mean her parents who never even thought to give her a proper debut? Her friend Harry who has his own engagement to focus on? Those family and friends?”

“Did it occur to you that her parents did think about it,” he counters smoothly, “and decided it against for a reason? And as for Harry…” Secrets compose his subsequent smirk. “Let’s just say that he is more than capable of protecting all the people he cares about. So, if I were you, I wouldn’t do anything that hurts her, because he won’t let you off if you do. And neither will I.”

Briefly, as he strides away, DuBois wonders why Cedric cares at all. She decides quickly, though, that they must be friendly with each other through their fathers, as Sirius Black is an auror and would have reason to cross paths with the elder Diggory on repeated occasion. Whatever the reason, it is inconsequential, and the boy’s threats ring hollow. DuBois has no interest in harming the sweet, glittering gem that is Gemma Lupin-Black.

Quite contrarily, DuBois merely wishes to offer a very skilled helping hand. The girl may be the catch of the season, but there is no reason why she must fall prey to salivating alphas. There is power in being so desirable, and Madame DuBois fully intends to weaponize it.

“Congratulations, Harry!”

At the sound of Leo’s casual salutation, Harry’s spine stiffens, and his fingers tighten around Draco’s hip as he presses his fiancé closer to his side. Leo’s gleaming hazel eyes, an exact replica of their father’s absent their father’s warmth, glint mischievously as he arches an auburn eyebrow.

“Now, now, brother,” Leo sighs dramatically, “I promise I am here in peace. I know Malfoy and I have had our spats, but seeing as he’ll be family soon, it’s all water under the bridge. Wouldn’t you agree, ferret-face?”

Harry grits his teeth, but Draco, placing a placating palm on his chest, simply sniffs at Leo.

“Of course,” Draco replies superiorly. “I can even help with your remedial Potion lessons. Snape has always said I have a gift for it, and I am more than happy to give you a few pointers.”

Leo’s lips quirk as they fight off a scowl, and, inwardly, Harry smiles. It is not that he does not love his twin brother, because he does immensely, just as he loves their parents and their younger sister, Marigold. But he is not under any delusion about who his brother is. Leo is exceedingly charismatic, possessing a grin that can inspire loyalty in most anyone, but he is also exceedingly petty, resorting to sabotage when charm fails him. And Leo has disliked Draco since the first day of their first year at Hogwarts, a distaste that took root the moment Draco showed more interest in the _other_ Potter boy than the Boy-Who-Lived.

“Please, Leo,” Harry sighs. “It’s my engagement party. If Dad and Uncle Sirius can refrain from insulting a Malfoy for a few hours, then so can you.”

“Fair enough, I really didn’t come over here to spar,” his brother huffs. His debonair face falls uncharacteristically grave. “I thought you should know that a Madame DuBois crashed your party earlier and was seen hovering around Gemma.”

“Madame Dubois?” Harry repeats. “The matchmaker? Why should she sneak in to speak to Gemma—”

“Because she is gorgeous, Harry,” Draco interrupts softly, “and very, very rich. Plus, she is an omega heir to a house with no alpha, so she comes with a title. Before, everyone assumed you and she were arranged to marry—”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry cries. “Our parents hate the idea of arrangements, especially Uncle Sirius. Besides, Gemma is practically my sister—”

“Everyone knows that _now_ ,” Draco insists, “but they didn’t before, so no one considered her as a possible mate. But now it’s obvious she is available for marriage, and she will start getting offers soon—a lot of them—and DuBois probably senses an opportunity to make money. They say she excels at what she does, which has to be true, because Blaise’s mother hired her. The nerve…”

“For once, we’re agreed, Malfoy,” Leo drawls before turning back to Harry. “Let’s sick Cory on her. That’ll teach her to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“The elder Weaslette?” Draco scoffs. Harry shoots him an admonishing look, and he bows his head sheepishly. “Sorry—old habits. I know she’s your friend, but Cordelia Weasley’s singular solution to any problem is to set the whole room on fire. Literally. If you want to fend off someone like Madame DuBois, you need someone well-versed in parlor games and politics. Someone like my cousin, Porrima.”

“Lestrange?” Leo barks laughingly. “She’s the daughter of convicted Deatheaters—”

“And because of that, she’s been the head of her house since she was an infant,” Draco points out defensively. “She’s mastered the art of maneuvering.”

“You mean manipulation,” Leo corrects. “I’ve seen what happens to people who cross her. For example, I think we all know Pansy Parkinson’s transfiguration ‘mishap’ last year was no accident. I mean, funny how Parkinson calls Lestrange a ‘black-eyed beetle’ and then ends up transfiguring herself into a dung beetle by the end of the next day. It wasn’t even a witty insult—I may not like the witch, but Lestrange is smoking hot, and Parkinson definitely is _not_. Lestrange could have let it lie, but, like most Slytherins, she’s a vindicative viper, lying in wait.”

“She is also Gemma’s cousin,” Draco hisses, “and friend. If DuBois is up to no good, who better to stop her than the snake hidden in the grass?”

“Enough, please,” Harry exhales. Momentarily, his eyelids slide shut as he takes in a slow, considering breath. Then, smirking thoughtfully, he opens his eyes wide.

“I am sure that Cory and Porrima will be happy to step in if needed,” he says, “but to get to Gemma, Madame DuBois ultimately has to go through Uncle Sirius and Uncle Remus, and the only thing worse than making an enemy of one Marauder is making an enemy of _two_.”


	3. Interlude: The First Time

Interlude—

The ~~First~~ Time

If you ask him when he first fell in love, Harry Potter will mentally correct you, eliminating the “first” in his mind. The numerical qualifier implies there is a second time and perhaps a third and fourth, but Harry fell in love at age eleven and never fell back out. He can recall that day as vividly as his own reflection: standing before Hogwarts’ Great Hall doors as a pale-skinned boy proffers a soft palmed- hand and a self-important smirk. He possesses a face caught somewhere between childhood and maturity, baby fat shed but possessing angles that will remain too large for three years yet, so his future beauty is not evident, not in the way Gemma’s is so clear in her doe, spring lavender eyes. Still, Harry feels his heart draw out a beat as he accepts the hand, and the other boy’s grip is firm and certain.

“You know I’m not Leo, right?” Harry asks warily. It has happened before, fawning fans mistaking him for the beloved Boy-Who-Lived, despite his brother’s picture being a regular feature in _The Daily Prophet_ , and Harry waits for that telltale embarrassed flush to bleed into the boy’s cheeks and the stammer of hasty apologies.

But, instead, the boy simply lifts a fine, silvery eyebrow.

“Obviously,” he says. “You have the more intelligent face.”

And, just like that, Harry falls. 

Soon after, house colors divide and separate them, Harry in red and gold, Draco in green and silver, and for awhile Harry assumes its an infatuation he will eventually outgrow. It is not like they become friends, Draco sticking to the vipers’ nest, Harry to the lions’ den. In fact, if he is friendly with any Slytherin, it is Porrima Lestrange, who, long marked with the scarlet letter of her parents’ sins, couldn’t care less about whether she is perceived to be associating with the “right” people. And their relationship really hinges on their respective friendships with Cordelia Weasley, a Gryffindor per her temper and trademark tiger lily orange bob but decidedly Slytherin in every other meaningful regard—a serpent in a lion’s robe. 

However, the feeling fails to flag as they grow. Maybe it is because they are never quite out of each other’s orbits. There is class, of course, particularly Potions periods where they sit side by side stirring quietly while, in the background, Leo neglects the instructions and causes an explosion by adding an ill-timed slice of mandrake. Later, when Draco takes a dig at Leo in the courtyard for that or another error, Harry stands between them to make sure that the fight does not escalate from tossing insults to hurling hexes.

And then there is quidditch. Oh quidditch—flying at a dragon’s speed, Draco’s thigh pressed against his own as they chase after a glint of gold. For the span of an inhale, their eyes meet, a quick grazing of glances, but it is all ever Harry is able to recall of the match afterwards.

They grow more still, and suddenly they are closer to adulthood than they are to their infancy, puberty drawing out their secondary sexes like the start of summer calling forth the roses. Draco has become stunning, Harry realizes during a garden party, an incarnation of pearl and silver. He goes awed and slack-jawed, coming to his senses only when Cory punches him in the shoulder.

“Ow!” he cries, rubbing the assaulted flesh, but Cory merely rolls her cerulean eyes, striking and beautifully harsh like a clear November sky.

“Stop slobbering,” she instructs, “grow a pair, and go over there. No omega wants an alpha without balls.” Gemma is gentler, as is her way.

“You should go say ‘hi’,” she encourages. “Cory and I will be fine.”

So he makes his way past flowerbeds of dahlias the softest shade of magenta to the beautiful boy whose quicksilver irises shimmer like dew on snowdrop blooms. Harry does not fall in love again—

He just falls deeper.

Thus, with little fanfare, he announces his intentions over a breakfast of biscuits and gravy.

“I am going to court Draco Malfoy.”

His father spews coffee all over Marigold’s waves of red-gold, sending the thirteen-year-old screeching to her room in a mad-dash to rectify the mess. His mother is more composed, but her eyebrows knit together in a tapestry of confusion. Leo, meanwhile, tears into a piece of bread with a bemused air that Harry knows is not entirely genuine. His brother expects their parents to quash this notion here and now for all the obvious reasons: the Malfoys belong to the staunch, small-minded elite, the noble set too wealthy and too crafty to get caught for any crime, regardless of the amble rumors that roam and rove like packs of wolves. Malfoy Senior has stood at the opposite end of every policy James Potter has ever stood for, and it is not at all presumptuous to assume both Lord and Lady Malfoy have used an unmentionable slur to refer to their mother in private and not-so private conversations. Plus, Leo has never uttered any neutral opinion about Draco, forget a positive one, so why would their parents dare to entertain the possibility of adding him to the family tree?

But Harry sees things that Leo’s egotism blinds him to. For all the attention and scrutiny their parents lavish on their eldest, James and Lily feel guilty, though Harry has never blamed for being preoccupied with his twin. No one expects to raise the savior of the Wizarding World, and baby care books like _Waiting on Your Little Wizard_ do not speak on how to manage your child’s overwhelming fame. But they feel guilty, and guilty they are. So they promise themselves they will make it up to Harry, that once the threat of Voldemort is truly dead and gone, they can go back and make up for the quidditch matches they missed and the praise and lectures they never gave. They will give him all the things he had seen no point in asking for.

Now, however, even as James sputters, rage revving, it is starting to sink in for both him and Lily that there will never be time for any of that. Harry is past the age of asking, and they no longer have the power to give and take, because you cannot take what you never gave.

Therefore, the day before Harry goes down one knee, they offer him a set of gold bands, simple in design but blessed with complex charms of protection.

“We hope he makes you happy, Harry,” his mother well-wishes with a smile fringed with tears. His father stays silent but does nod his agreement. …His acceptance.

Not that it would have mattered if they had objected, because Harry has been in love since he was eleven and has only fallen deeper since.


End file.
